


Rushing, Racing, Running

by RisingPhoenix761



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Episode: s04e12 Still, Episode: s04e13 Alone, F/M, Summer of Bethyl 2018, slightly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 22:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingPhoenix761/pseuds/RisingPhoenix761
Summary: They always had to be ready to run. Summer of Bethyl 2018





	Rushing, Racing, Running

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was "rush" and this happened in about two hours. I hope you like it! Feel free to let me know!

They always had to be ready to run. From walkers, from hostile strangers, even from nature itself whenever it threw a storm up on the horizon. Whatever shelter they found, it never lasted long.

Daryl was used to pushing himself, to urging his body past its limits, when strength and stamina were burned out and it was sheer stubbornness that kept him moving. Beth, however, wasn't. She did her best to keep up with him whenever they were on the move, never saying a word to complain or ask if they could stop, but he watched her closely, and when she looked ready to collapse he called them to a halt.

Those moments of rest were the loudest, when it was most important to be quiet. They made way too much noise between them, chests heaving as they gasped for breath, but he could never hear that over the rushing of his pulse in his ears, his heart pounding so hard he was surprised it didn't crack his ribs. He would look up every now and then and see her with her fingers on the pulse in her wrist, measuring her own heartbeat and trying to breathe in a way that it slowed down, and he knew she felt the same rush he did.

The quiet after that rush, those brief moments when they didn't have to run...first it was torture. His head filled itself with grief and guilt, thinking of the home and the people they'd lost. He knew it was on her mind, too, the way she'd talk so determined to look for the rest of their family and she damn near drove him crazy with her optimism and hope when to him, it was just a waste of time.

Then the quiet was cleansing, like some of the shit he'd been carrying inside had been washed away. Somehow it had, and she'd done it herself. He'd pushed her away and she'd pushed back, standing her ground and calling him out when all he could do was rage at her until there was no more anger left and the pain came flooding out. She was there for that, too, holding onto him with her arms and later with her words. Words that seemed too wise for someone her age but lit a fire somewhere inside him...not unlike the fire they'd lit to their shelter before racing off again.

Running was different after that. With that fire she'd lit burning more and more like hope, he felt like they might not just be running away anymore. Maybe running  _towards_  something. And all he knew to do was track it, follow it back to where it lived, and see it for himself.

And the rush  _that_  gave him when he saw where they might be heading, it didn't slow down anymore. It followed him into the quiet moments. It started back up whenever he found himself watching her, almost the same way he'd been watching her since they started running. Almost, but not quite, because something felt different when he looked at her now.  _He_ felt different. He couldn't hear the quiet over the racing of his heart, the hammering of his pulse, the rush in his veins.

And after awhile, all he had to do was look at her to see she felt it too.


End file.
